Nothing Ever Ends
by manitilde
Summary: **This is just something I found while looking through old files on my computer. It hasn't been edited or anything


She jumped behind a fallen tree, crawling towards the end of to see her attacker clearly. She gripped the one weapon she had; a shard of glass, her fingers curled tightly around it, cutting it into her skin. She ignored the pain of it and tried to steady her breath. She spied around the trunk, but could not see her assailant. Curious, she moved forward a little more, but still saw nothing. Not allowing herself to fall into a false sense of security, she held her breath in an attempt to hear where he was hiding.

"Abby!" he yelled after her.

Abby ignored him and continued running, though she knew not where. Stumbling down some rocks she saw an old tool shed and rushed towards it.

There was no way she could believe Henry had done this. Somewhere she knew that if it had been Jimmy, like they were led to believe, she would have had an easier time believing it. But not Henry. He had always been there for her, since they were kids. It just wasn't possible. Her back against the door, she held her face in her hands. He had done it all because of a long ago wish, a child's fantasy. For some reason that was what bothered her the most. He had tried to justify himself to her, tried to get her to accept that what he had done needed to be done; that she could forget everyone else and stay with him, forever.

Her brother. The realization hit her like a ton of bricks; Henry was her brother. Suddenly every childhood memory was brought forth, this time colored with the truth of Henry's relation to her. She didn't want to believe it. It would mean everything she held dear, every thought that helped her break through her depression was a lie. She couldn't believe it; she wouldn't believe it.

She knew that those words would hurt them in the worst way possible. She also knew those words were a lie. She did want him, just not in the way he wanted her to. Since she was seven years old, she could never imagine a life without Henry Dunn in it. He was a constant every summer for more than ten years.

His face, in that last moment, would haunt her for the rest of her life. Not because of the terrible deeds he had done, nor for the pain he put her through, but because, in that instant, just for a second, his face was of the purest innocence; the face of the little boy not wanting to go away for a year; the face of her best friend. And because of that one instant of remembrance, she could never bring herself to admit that killing Henry was a good thing, for she always saw it, no matter what anyone else said, as killing a broken child and not as putting an end to the whole affair.

Even being questioned by the FBI, Abby stayed silent. She had not said a word in nearly three weeks. She was not comatose or even immobile; she just would not speak. She merely stared forward at the walls or occasionally at the person addressing her, but she never uttered a sound. The counselors all assured Jimmy that such behavior was normal under these circumstances. A form post traumatic stress disorder, most likely. They told him that it would pass and that all he could really do was support her and try to make her a comfortable and safe as he could. So Jimmy tried. He brought all her meals to her when she got up in the morning, though he had to force her to eat any of it; he made sure not to make too many loud noises when moving around. He even made sure that she did not have to handle any knives when eating. He had done all this while still recovering from the ordeal himself, however, when he awoke one morning, Abby was gone. He found a note on the table written on the back of a torn receipt. "Thank You," was all it said. Jimmy stood, staring down at the slip of paper for a long time before collapsing onto his knees. Even now, after all this, she still chose to leave him. Still on him knees, he started to laugh, falling down so that his hands rested on the floor as well. On all fours Jimmy fell about until his laughter turned to tears.

Elsewhere, Abby Mills stood on a wooden pier overlooking the Pacific. The waves below lapped at the pillars supporting the dock, rocking it gently. She stood as close to the railing as possible, so close in fact, that several passersby stopped briefly wondering if she was going to jump. They moved on once they got bored staring at her back for several minutes. Abby had not moved an inch from where she stood since she had gotten there that morning. Her mind was far away from her body; about thirty seven miles away in fact. She continued to stare ahead until the setting sun caused the blue-green of the water reflected crimson into Abby's dark eyes. Her hands moved slowly to her stomach, hands overlapping.


End file.
